


The Edge of the Woods

by bottledspirits



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:53:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledspirits/pseuds/bottledspirits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Rumpelstiltskin had not taken the beggar’s advice? What if there had been another path?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He remembered his mother caring for him. It was a long time ago. Almost everything about her was fuzzy – her face, her voice – but there was one detail he could recall in astonishing detail.

Her hands were large, for a woman her size, but delicate, with long, graceful fingers. He remembered how cool those fingers had felt against his forehead when he had taken fever. She had swept the hair from his brow and leaned in close as she told him what a sweet, gentle boy he was.

They were spinner’s hands. He knew, for he had them himself. Everyone had laughed at him, even his father, for how clumsy he had been with them.

But Rumpelstiltskin paid them no heed. He had worked with the same devoted care that his mother had, and in time he learned to make the most of his hands.

It was those same hands that he laid on the bedclothes, and with them he gave a gentle shake to the sleeping soul beneath.

“Come on, son, wake it up,” Rumpelstiltskin said as his son tried to roll away from him.

Baelfire mumbled sleepily and poked his head out of the covers.

“Papa?” he said. He rubbed his face, bringing a flush to his features. His hair was an unruly mess.

Rumpelstiltskin was not, and never could be, a man to easily show his affections, but to see his son carefree and whole brought a small smile to his lips. He turned away before Bae could see it and hobbled to the hearth. There was a rosy bed of coals there, low but still warm, and his walking stick was propped against the fireplace.

“We have work to do,” Rumpelstiltskin said.

His voice was quiet, but he knew it carried when he heard the groan of the bed as his son got up.

“What kind of work?” Baelfire asked.

~

Rumpelstiltskin had his son collect bits of wood as they walked along. They would need them later, as there had been little lumber in the house when they got there. For his own part, Rumpelstiltskin sought out longer pieces that he could use for building. These he carried himself, some under one arm, and some bundled together with his walking stick.

Behind him, he could hear every time Baelfire dropped a piece of wood. There would be a hollow thunk, followed by a scuffle of rustling of leaves, and then several more little thumps.

Yet every time he turned to help, there would be Baelfire, arms full of firewood, and not a single piece out of place.

“What is it, Papa?” his son asked when his father looked at him on one such occasion. They had been walking for some time, as was evident by the bulging collection of wood scraps that Baelfire had amassed.

Rumpelstiltskin did not reply. They had reached a small clearing of sorts, and the man glanced to the treetops around them. The sunlight was fading slowly but steadily. Around them, the twittering of the birds had subsided, all but for one lonely creature that trilled out long, sweet notes somewhere in the distance.

“We should get back,” Rumpelstiltskin said finally. He shouldered his burden and shuffled back in the direction they had come. As he moved, there was a clatter behind him.

When he looked around, Baelfire was fumbling to balance his load and pick up a fallen branch at the same time.

“You don’t need to take so many, son,” Rumpelstiltskin said. The boy was leaning precariously in order to reach his prize. Rumpelstiltskin put one hand on Baelfire’s shoulder to steady him. He knew he could no more dissuade the boy than he could help him. His boy was always so willing to take everything on, and he, as a father, was never able to do enough.

“I know, but…” the boy began, but he trailed off, staring at something in the undergrowth beyond.

He felt Baelfire pause and looked down at the boy.

“What is it, son?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, suddenly nervous. He did not know these woods, was not aware of what kind of predators lurked in the darkness. It had been foolish of him to bring Baelfire out so far and lose track of time. If they were attacked now, he would not be able to defend his boy, though he would certainly try. He knew it would not be enough.

He had only thought of how good it had been to spend time with his boy, out of reach of the war and the soldiers.

“Papa, what is that?” Baelfire had the branch in hand now, and he used it to point into the trees.

Rumpelstiltskin peered in the direction his son indicated. He squinted in the low light, but he was just able to make out a kind of glimmer through the trees. There was a light ahead. As he watched, it flickered and shimmered, as if dodging his gaze.

He stilled his breathing and listened. Baelfire watched as they waited, but did not say a word. He was clever enough to see that his father needed silence.

It was fortunate that the birds had stopped singing. Even the lone night bird had stilled its voice for the time being, and over the rush of the wind in the canopy, Rumpelstiltskin was able to make out the steady, restless trickle of a nearby stream.

So that was it. There was water ahead.

“Some kind of glen,” Rumpelstiltskin said, turning away again.

“Can we look?” Baelfire asked. The curiosity was clear in his voice, but he nonetheless shuffled obediently after his father.

“Another time,” Rumpelstiltskin said. He struggled to walk under the weight of his burden, but he hurried all the same, desperate to get back to their secluded cabin. He would not make the same mistake again, not after the scare they’d just had.

Baelfire said nothing. Rumpelstiltskin wondered if the boy was disappointed. A noise behind him got his attention, and Rumpelstiltskin turned to see his son once again struggling to contain the hodge-podge of broken wood in his arms.

“Don’t hold them so tight,” he advised his son, “or else they’ll slip away.”

The boy looked at him, and then slowly loosened his grip. His collection of firewood chinked into place. Baelfire stood stock-still for a moment, as if waiting for something to come loose, and then took one hesitant step. The wood shifted slightly, but otherwise remained in place. Baelfire took a few more steps until he was at his father’s side and looked up at the man, as if looking for his approval.

“All right then, son?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, resisting the urge to reach out and ruffle the boy’s hair.

The boy ducked his head, as if embarrassed, and grinned.

“Yes, Papa,” Baelfire said.

“Let’s move along, then,” Rumpelstiltskin said. He motioned Baelfire to go ahead of him and could not resist giving the boy a reassuring pat on the head as he moved.

Before he went to follow, Rumpelstiltskin cast a glance over his shoulder.

It was just a stream, he told himself. Yet something about that glint through the trees held his gaze. He could barely tear his eyes away to follow his son, and as he did, he could feel that light behind him in the same way that one feels a pair of eyes on one’s back.

The light drew him in, entranced and excited him, and he was frightened by it.

~

The boy and the spinner sat in the firelight together, neither of them saying much. Baelfire had one of the pieces of wood he’d found in the forest, and was trying to carve it with his pocketknife. Rumpelstiltskin watched him out of the corner of his eye. He was fascinated by the way tiny shavings of wood gave way to one shape, and then another. It took a patient hand. Rumpelstiltskin had never been much for carving, but his boy seemed to have a knack for it.

He watched his son’s hands with interest. They were like his, but that could just be wishful thinking. Rumpelstiltskin often wondered how much resemblance his son shared with him. There were times when he thought he saw something of himself in the boy, and still other times when he felt an alien next to him. He wondered whether Baelfire took notice of how dissimilar they were.

As a distraction, Rumpelstiltskin looked at his own hands. They seemed big and ungainly to his eyes. There were tiny scars, here and there; evidence of a lifetime’s use. The skin was tanned and weathered, like a cloth left out in the sun. He compared them to his son’s hands, new and strong.

It reminded him briefly of his mother, whose hands he remembered as white and perfect, though that could not be so. She had lived a hard life. Yet her hands had always been gentle for him.

Rumpelstiltskin folded his hands and looked at the fire instead. It would not do to dwell on the past. He had no spinning wheel here. There’s had been a hasty escape, and there had been no room for something as heavy and cumbersome as the wheel.

Still, he missed the loss. He had no task to occupy his thoughts in quiet moments. This was the time when he would spin. Sometimes he spun to forget, but more often than not, he spun to remember a pair of hands much like his own, gentle and strong, and a soft voice in the night, reminding him what a gentle soul he was.

“What do you think, Papa?” Baelfire’s bright voice broke him out of his reverie.

Rumpelstiltskin turned to see Baelfire holding up the piece of wood he’d been working on. It had been a misshapen lump before, all gnarled and dirty from its time on the ground, and it was still a misshapen lump, albeit a cleaner-looking one now. His son had gently scraped the dirt and dead bark away, revealing the pale wood beneath. There were tiny marks and ridges where the boy had worked his knife, but Rumpelstiltskin could see no evident design.

“Very good, son,” he said gently, albeit with a note of confusion. “What’s it going to be?”

Baelfire took no notice of his father’s puzzlement. He looked at the lump fondly, scraping it a bit with his knife, and said, “Oh, I don’t know yet. But it’s a good piece of wood.”

Rumpelstiltskin schooled the twitch of smile that tried to play across his features and rose from the hearth.

“Best get some sleep,” the man said, gesturing for the boy to get up. He watched as the boy cradled the strange carving and added, “Maybe the shape will come to you in your dreams.”

“Really?” the boy looked at him, utterly trusting, a light in his eyes. Rumpelstiltskin did not know whether to be pleased, or to be ashamed for taking advantage of the boy’s naivety.

“Perhaps,” Rumpelstiltskin said quietly, and Baelfire knew from his tone not to inquire further.

The boy set the knife and the carving on the table. He treated them both with such reverence that most people might have laughed. But not Rumpelstiltskin. The man leaned toward the hearth, an old branch in hand, and banked the coals for the night.

“Papa?” he heard Baelfire say.

“Yes, son?” he asked without looking at the boy.

There was a pause. The silence hung in the air, and Rumpelstiltskin felt, rather than knew, what his son wanted to say. He’d probably wanted to say it since the first night they’d left their home in the frontlands.

So he waited. He knew that someday his son would say the words, would voice his disappointment in his father, and there would be nothing for Rumpelstiltskin to say.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” Baelfire asked.

Rumpelstiltskin turned at that. His son was watching him with a look of concern. So today would not be that day.

He felt a smile creep over his features.

“Not just yet, son,” he said. He turned to rest his head on the mantelpiece, staring into the warm depths of the coals. “I have to watch the fire.”


	2. Chapter 2

The fire was low when he awoke. Rumpelstiltskin could feel the clinging chill of the morning mist as he moved to get up from his makeshift bed beside the hearth. He had made Baelfire take the only bed in the cabin, saying it would be better for him if he needed to get up in the night. Baelfire hadn’t quite believed him, if the boy’s face at the time was anything to go on, but he had obeyed.

Rumpelstiltskin was sore as he stood. A combination of old bones and cold floors, no doubt. He went to the door, where the water bucket hung by a nail by the doorframe.

It was empty. Rumpelstiltskin frowned, and then remembered that they’d neglected to fill it last night. He would need it to start that morning’s chores.

He took his cloak from where it hung on the wall and collected his walking stick from the mantelpiece. When he glanced at the bed he saw that Baelfire was still fast asleep, burrowed under the covers as he was. Rumpelstiltskin took the bucket and opened the door as quietly as possible, but the old hinges could not resist one long, agonizing squeak as he stepped outside. He shut the door with care and gave it a shake to be sure that it would stay closed while he was away.

The well was not far from the house. Rumpelstiltskin was thankful for that. He stepped over the damp grass that grew around their forest hideaway, leaving a dark trail in the dew. The well was an old stone construct, all vines and moss, with a moldy length of rope to serve for hauling up the water.

Rumpelstiltskin set the bucket down on the edge of the well and took hold of the rope.

It would not budge.

The man paused, at first thinking he had pulled the wrong way, and tugged again. No avail. The rope was caught on something far down, out of reach, and he had no rope on hand to fashion a makeshift pulley.

He pulled a little desperately for a while, and when that failed, he dropped the rope to lean against the well and sigh. There would be no water from this well, at least not for now. He had not explored the area enough to know where fresh water could be found. Where else could he go?

With a jolt, he remembered the stream they had come across last night. There was no telling that the water would be good to drink, but it might lead him to a spring of some sort. It would have to do.

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated. The stream was deeper in the forest than he liked, and there was something eerie about that part of the woods. It wasn’t unsafe, and yet…he had seen no tracks, barely heard the birds calling. It was too quiet, if such a thing was possible.

Still, Baelfire would be up soon, and he would be hungry. For that matter, Rumpelstiltskin was hungry. And thirsty. Suddenly, as he thought of the glen and the sound of the rushing water, he was parched as he had never been in his life. All because he was afraid of a clump of trees.

Sometimes it was a terrible thing to be a coward, Rumpelstiltskin thought as he hobbled into the trees.

~

The clearing by the glen was just as quiet by day as it had been by twilight. That did not surprise Rumpelstiltskin, who was used to the stillness the morning light brought.

He paused in the clearing to get his bearings. As he peered around, he was caught by how the surrounding trees formed a kind of cathedral, the morning light pouring down as if through a great window. He squinted in the light, not used to such brightness. The sky on the frontlands had always been dull and hazy with the smoke of the battlefield.

Rumpelstiltskin pushed away that unpleasant thought and bent awkwardly in order to get a better view through the forest. He saw the glint again, tantalizing and beautiful, and went toward it.

He had to be careful to step over roots and clumps of plants. There was no path here. It was slow going with his leg, and it made him sweaty and thirsty, so he was soon moving blindly, trying to negotiate the forest floor by feel.

The stream revealed itself suddenly, and he found himself standing ankle-deep in it. Rumpelstiltskin let out a noise and backed out of the water. The bucket swung wildly as he attempted to find a kind of high ground. There was no bank here; no wonder he’d foundered into it.

He found a smallish boulder to stand on and knelt to examine the water. It ran clear and shallow. The bed of the stream was made up of gray stone, a strong contrast to the red earth beneath. Some of the rocks were tinged with red as well, which made Rumpelstiltskin wonder.

It did not affect the taste of the water, however, as he found when he gingerly reached in and cupped a mouthful with his hands. He drank it slowly, at first, but it was not enough. He dipped the bucket into the stream and was watching it steadily fill when he heard the clatter of shifting rocks upstream.

Rumpelstiltskin tensed at the sound. He had, once again, allowed himself to be caught in the open, unawares and unprotected.

The man rose slowly, barely lifting his head as he moved. There was no sign of whatever made the noise, but that was no reassurance for him. Doing his best to bring the bucket up silently – it wouldn’t do to leave it for someone to find – Rumpelstiltskin was backing into the trees when he heard something move directly across the stream. His heart in his throat, he looked up – and saw a thing he’d scarcely imagined seeing in his life.

Its shape was something between a stallion and a stag; tall and slender, but muscular and strong. There were no antlers, just a single horn that seemed to shimmer in the light. It was paler than the moon itself, and was possessed of an unearthly glow.

But beside all that, it was immensely tall, and standing right across from Rumpelstiltskin. As the man stared, his fear stalled by momentary astonishment, the creature turned its head to set a pair of dark, misty eyes on him. Those eyes bore straight through Rumpelstiltskin. He felt a strange calm overtake him, as one might feel in sleep, and his grip on the bucket loosened.

Then the creature stepped forward, craning its head toward him.  Rumpelstiltskin felt his fear overtake him with double force. He backed away, dropping the bucket in his terror, and tripped as he stepped off the rock that had been his perch.

He landed in the dirt. His walking stick was nowhere to be found. Rumpelstiltskin scrambled backward until he met with a tree trunk and used it to haul himself up. Panting heavily, he glanced back at the stream.

The unicorn had stopped before the water, still staring at Rumpelstiltskin. It would not move its gaze. He thought vaguely to flee, but how could he, with such a creature behind him? It would be upon him in a moment.

“Don’t be afraid. He’s not here to hurt you.”

Rumpelstiltskin turned at the noise, but was otherwise still. Someone was approaching the unicorn. Rumpelstiltskin took in a flutter of blue and a wisp of dark, wavy hair before closing his eyes and opening them again. He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing.

He gaped in wonder at the woman – but no, that wasn’t the right word, was it? She looked like a woman, but there was something unworldly about her, too. It wasn’t in her dress, the strange, draping thing, or even the glittering wings at her back, but in the way she stepped up to the unicorn and fearlessly laid a hand on its side, in the way she raised her eyes to his and regarded him with a look that was neither hesitant or suspicious.

If the unicorn’s eyes had struck him, these had him transfixed. He had never seen so much blue before – blue the color of the sky, of clearest, purest water.

Blue…blue…

“A-are you the Blue Fairy? Rheul Gorm?” the man stammered, surprised that he’d found his voice at all.

To his astonishment, the fairy laughed. It was a rich sound, unlike the high, silly voices he’d always imagined fairies having, and when she spoke again her voice had a low, rough quality.

“No, no – not at all! I work for her, that’s all. Helping these little ones,” the fairy said, running her hand appreciatively over the unicorn’s side. The animal seemed to like her touch, and nuzzled at in response.

Rumpelstiltskin watched them in awe. It was one thing to see a unicorn in one’s lifetime, or a fairy, but both at once? And for them to appear before an old man like him, rather than some innocent young maiden, was even more of a marvel.

But what struck him the most was the way this pretty little thing called the unicorns “little ones”. From what he knew, unicorns were as old as the land itself, at the very least. How old must she be, to call this creature young?

Whatever ease he had acquired at the fairy’s laughter was suddenly gone. He was in the presence of two ancient beings, both powerful enough to end him where he stood. That would have been enough to make him uncomfortable under any circumstance, but it was the penetrating gaze of the little blue fairy – for indeed, she was a tiny thing, for all the power she must have possessed – that was bringing a blush to his features.

“I, ah…I didn’t mean to disturb your work. I’ll just get out of your way,” Rumpelstiltskin mumbled. He stumbled forward to get the bucket, which still had a bit of water left, and looked up to find the fairy frowning at him.

“You haven’t disturbed us. The only ones who see a unicorn are those who are meant to see one. Did you know?” She had a curiously naïve expression as she asked, and he again found himself wondering how old she could really be.

“I-is that so?” he foundered under her gaze. How could she look so closely at someone like him?

“Yes,” she said. She still had those eyes set on his face. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to look away or come closer, and he wondered if it was some kind of magic.

He was about to ask as much when the fairy cocked her head, as if hearing something, and glanced around.

“Is this yours?” she asked, bemused.

He turned to see what she was referring to and found his walking stick hovering before him. He stared at it a moment before taking hold of it. It was reassuring to grip it once more.

When Rumpelstiltskin looked back to the fairy, she was smiling at him.

“It’s been with you a long time, hasn’t it? It was calling for you,” she said.

 Rumpelstiltskin stared at that, not quite sure what to think.

“Yes, I suppose it’s been a long time,” he mumbled, looking at the stick as he spoke.

“You must treat it well, for it to be so loyal to you,” the fairy said.

He looked up at that, startled by the compliment.

“Thank you,” said Rumpelstiltskin. He was not used to hearing such things from anyone, let alone a fairy.

The fairy smiled, as if she’d done nothing unusual. In fact, she seemed entirely at home there, standing in a glen with a unicorn and speaking to a mortal man.

“You’re welcome,” she said.


End file.
